


Fall Seven Times

by scarletSumac



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 07:02:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14396775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletSumac/pseuds/scarletSumac
Summary: There’s a saying you remember,nanakorobi yaoki. Fall seven times, stand up eight.You were taught and trained by this saying, and now you must live by it.Your name is Hanzo Shimada. And this is your path to redemption.





	Fall Seven Times

==============================

You dream a dream of the ocean blue. With the gulls overhead and the sound of waves breaking against the cliffs. A shushing noise that calms you. Gives you peace. 

You look out over a dusky sky. And you see the evening star, shimmering, flashing. A glimmer of white in the salmon sky. Opalescent, outcast. Away. 

You look down to the rocks below, pale teeth rising. You see the sea foam, ebbing and flowing. The tides rising, swallowing the jagged edges whole, slowly, slowly, bit by bit. 

You see a scene before you, unlike any you’ve ever seen before. Watching the sunset on a rocky outcrop. Peaceful at last (though you know you don’t deserve it). You see the world shade bright red and orange and gold. The last burst of colour before the starry blackness of night. 

You see beauty. Simplicity. Balance.

And you awaken, certain you see the moment before the end of your life.

==============================

 

It takes you about a minute longer than usual to throw off your covers and get up. Finally sick of that one band of sunlight stretching across your face from that gap in the curtains. You shut off the beeping alarm clock already, but you remained there in silence, with the din of morning traffic bustling below.

That dream again. 

It’s the third one this week. 

You’re starting to think it’s a sign. 

_Not a very good one_ , you think, wandering over to the bathroom. You feel the cold parquet floor under your bare feet. 

You scratch the back of your head, trying to soothe the mess of bedhead, brush your teeth, wash your face. Your usual morning routine.

You look into the mirror. 

_Should clean it again_. You think, you can already see the grime beginning to build up. 

In the reflection you see a man with brown eyes and black hair that’s getting a little long and fluffs up in places. You see lips pulled into a stern line and a silver stud on each side of your nose bridge. 

Beyond that, you see someone who’s just tired. Tired of having to remain one step ahead, every day and every night. Where the clan’s remaining assassins might break into your room in the middle of the night and kill you in your sleep. 

_Then again, a death like that would be nice wouldn’t it?_

You smooth back your hair, tie it into a little ponytail, comb back the silvery wings, one lock of hair refused to be tied back. It’s always been like that. 

After your usual morning exercises and a quick shower.

You change out of your sleep clothes, into a simple t-shirt, a pair of cargo pants. 

A quick breakfast of miso soup and rice is made and had, and you grab your usual three things and head out. 

At the door, in between tying your laces you double check.

Keys and card? Check. Wallet? Check. Phone? Check. 

You pull your door shut, already beginning to sweat in the tropical heat, and you wait for the click and the beep, and you head off towards the elevator at the end of the corridor.

You didn’t choose Singapore for it’s weather. No, definitely not for the weather. It’s almost as hot as the summers back in Japan here, and it’s hot pretty much all the time. 

You chose it because of the constant security upgrades. Even before the crisis, the country has prided itself on safety, and after the crisis, the security measures simply got stricter.

But sometimes the strictest system can be the safest place for a man on the run. 

You had enough money and connections to make sure no one batted an eye ever since you arrived last month. 

You’ve been living here quietly ever since. 

You take a walk around the neighbourhood, wandering almost aimlessly, through the void decks of tall colourful housing blocks and past playgrounds with spongy floors. 

You can see some children playing, and a human-omnic couple watching quietly from a bench, huddled under a big green umbrella with a cheerful frog printed on it. 

And you stop for a moment. Just to watch them. You see a little boy in yellow chasing his friends, climbing up and down the rope net and the little stairs. 

The couple calls one of the children over, hands them a little water bottle, gives them a piece of fruit from a tupperware container, and they run back to their friends again. 

There’s a faint haze of nostalgia. A secondhand familiarity. You never really had this. But you remember going to school, hearing your classmates talk about such things, about playing tag at the park or tossing a ball back and forth. 

At the time you thought it childish. You were above that, son of a lord, heir to the empire. 

Now you wish you had that too. 

You walk past them quickly, pulling out your phone and checking, as if there were any new messages to look at. 

You check again, the list is mostly empty, with only four chat logs listed. 

The bottom one went to your informant here. She helped you acquire safe passage here and got you a roof over your head. 

The one above that went to someone called Ixi. They were handing you all your jobs, although you hadn’t had a call or text in over two weeks. 

The one above that was an ad that mildly startled you. After half a decade and they still try and pull this shit. 

_Congratulations! You are one of 50 lucky winners for-_

Delete.

The top one. The most recent. Came from an unknown number. You hadn’t dared to call it, partly out of fear that your enemies were listening, but mostly because the message was signed as the one person you regretted losing the most. 

You look through the message again, it’s your new pastime. Reading over the words again and again, as if a second read or a third or a fiftieth would help you decide.

You shove your phone back into your pocket, continue wandering. 

You spend most of the day out, and you wander past a florist at the neighbourhood market, there’s a laminated paper sign taped to a table asking for an assistant. And you contemplate it for a moment before wandering off. 

You check your phone again when you stop for lunch. Getting some laksa from a food court. You slurp down the thick white noodles and sip the bright red-orange soup, staring at the message all the while. 

You check your phone again another four times before heading back to your apartment in the evening. 

This is your life now. Moving from place to place, settling, but not really settling. 

You almost think it’s lonely. 

 

You’re in the middle of making dinner when your phone beeps. 

It’s Ixi. 

_Hey, gotta new thing for you.  
Meet here. _

Another beep, and it’s a location. 

_Find the block 642 sign. See you in an hour._

Forty-eight minutes later you’re under the sign. Night has fallen. And the yellow glow of the sign above lights a little space around you. 

The night is a little colder than usual, and you can smell the rain coming. You check your watch, check your phone, reread the message for the seventh time today.

You hear a little cough and a boy with dark skin and curly hair walks up to you. 

“Your friend wants to pass this to you.” he says, handing you a manila envelope, sealed with string.

You nod and thank the kid, handing him a two dollar note. “Go buy something nice.” you say.

The kid looks at you, at the money, back at you. 

Then he takes it and runs off. And in the distance you hear the ding of an elevator arriving at the lobby nearby.

You only open it when you reached home, although the entire journey back you could feel the weight of the envelope, almost too real in your hand. If you were the more nervous type, you’d have thought the entire train was eyeing you as you made your way back. 

You open the envelope carefully, and in it is a folder, some papers, a note with printed coordinates, a handful of business cards. There’s another smaller envelope inside with a wad of cash, you count, it has about two thousand Singapore dollars in it, a paltry sum compared to what you were to get later. As well as a Japanese passport.

You were going to be known as Takumi Sato. And you will be traveling to Tokyo as a businessman.   
You will be staying at the Nakamura Plaza Hotel, which overlooks an office building, and you will receive a card that lets you access the roof. Which has a rather convenient view of the office of someone named Kenichi Furuya, who tends to work rather late.

You send a quick text to Ixi, and wander over to pack your things.

==============================

The job went very smoothly. As they always do.

It only took one arrow.

You recall. 

You spotted your target, hidden beside a vent on the roof, right in its shadow. Not as if you needed it, you had already disabled the cameras and the sensors. 

Nock. 

You took a deep breath. Inhale, exhale, eyeing your the silhouette of your target, hunched over a desk, facing away from you. 

Draw.

You pulled back the string. Took aim, felt the wind whip around you, judging the distance and the direction to let your arrow fly. 

Loose. 

You let the arrow fly. And a second later you saw your target’s silhouette flop over. 

A quick check through your binoculars revealed a clean shot through the temple.

You permit yourself a small smile. 

Another job well done. 

You smile again now, on the hypertrain on the way to Hanamura. You had ditched your briefcase and the cheap suit the moment you checked out, changing into a pair of cargo pants and a jacket with a high collar, carefully stowing Storm Bow in a guitar case from a thrift store. You even got a hair cut. And you run your fingers along the shaved sides of your head. 

In your reflection in the train’s window you see a different man. Someone you aren’t used to yet.

You see someone trying to be someone new. Or someone different. Some part of you hates it.   
You aren’t someone new. You’re the same person you were ten years ago. Just a lot older, and a lot more tired. 

You aren’t even sure what you’re tired of anymore.

You were sick of being tired of life a long time ago.

 

By now you’re wandering the streets of Hanamura, with the keys to a safe house you abandoned a long time ago. 

You find it with little difficulty, do a quick sweep, check for any bugs and recording devices. Satisfied that you found none, you begin cleaning. Sweeping away the dust and removing the plastic sheeting from the furniture. 

Halfway through wiping down the little dining table, you stop, and you sigh. 

Why are you even here?

This trip to your hometown, was done on a whim. ( _No it wasn’t_ ) It’s at least half a year till the next anniversary. And you aren’t even sure you want to return again. 

Genji is alive. He found you, spoke to you. 

You clench your fists at the memory.   
You did this to him. You took away everything he was, and made him this… thing. 

You nearly punch the table. 

_Join me._ It read. You nearly pull out your phone again. 

Why are you here? 

Why did you come back? ( _You know why._ )

You wander to the sink, wash the rag, leave it to dry.

And without thinking anymore about this, you grab your bow and leave. 

You run along the rooftops, scaling buildings and darting over alleyways, occasionally taking down the clan members that stand guard on the nearby buildings. They’ve beefed up security since you last visited. 

It isn’t enough to stop you. 

You leap over the inner gate, landing on the ground in front of the family shrine. 

You take a few steps in.

This is where you see her. Your reason for coming back. 

You were hoping you’d find her here.

The woman kneels before the panel, below the dragons soaring on the mural above. Wisps of smoke curling in the air before her. Grey smoke pale as her hair. She wears a lavender kimono with a deep grey obi. And from where you stand you can see the pattern of fish swimming on her sleeves. 

You know her. 

You would know her deaf or blind. You'd know her apart from millions of others. You'd know her by her scent or her touch or her smile. 

How could you ever forget?

You cough, lightly. And she startles, sighs.

“ _Didn’t I tell you not to interrupt me? Just give me a few more minutes._ ” She says, in gentle airy Japanese. Still not looking at you.

“Take your time.” you say, just as your heart begins to speed to a steady staccato. 

She freezes. You see her head bow, and you know, she’s remembering, denying, accepting, questioning. She turns, slowly. Your heart pounds loud and steady and you can feel the beats in your ears.

For a few laborious moments she stares at you, taking the sight of you in. And you watch her, gripping your bow tight. You watch her almond eyes and her lips drawn into a passive line.  
She’s aged, of course, but at least she’s aged well. 

Time seems to slow for you, every heartbeat counting down the seconds. 

But then she smiles, time resumes, and you exhale, deep, slow, only just realising you were holding your breath. Slowly, she stands, smoothing the front of her kimono as she does. 

You step towards her. Gingerly crossing the bridge into the main hall. You see her smile, giggle a bit.

“My goodness, those piercings, and that _hair_! You’ve changed so much my little wolf pup." 

You say nothing, you want to. But what could you say?

After all, you did kill her son. 

"Have you come to pay your respects? I don't see you here anymore. But I know. You do come back don't you?"

She looks up at you, face creased in worry. "Are you alright?” A head tilt, “What’s the matter?”

You cough again. Offering your arm, she takes it, for old time’s sake. "It is nothing.” you reply.

She shakes her head. “Silly boy, I’m your mother, I can tell something’s bothering you.”

You are thirty eight years old and still she chastises you like you’re a child. 

“Come, walk with me.” she continues. 

You remember these walks, once or twice around the gardens, take every other left, stop by the bench near the pond, just under the sakura tree. You remember when her hair was still black, when she still wore kimonos whose colours were too young for a married woman. You remember she never cared. You look at her, and you see the crows feet and the laugh lines and the wrinkles on her forehead.

“It’s been so long, Hanzo. Why haven’t you come to visit me?” she says, wistful, sighing, as if her voice was frosted over. 

“You know why.” you reply. Feeling the ache of shame burn in your chest.

Her hands are so cold. When did they get so cold?

“You come back every year, but only at night, once I’ve left. That’s a little rude don't you think?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Come visit more often. Mother gets lonely, you know?”

It’s been ten years. The first time you’ve seen her in ten years. You wonder why she doesn’t react. The passionate woman you once knew is gone, but then again, so is the son she once knew and loved. The son she raised who would protect his brother. 

Gone is that young man, and here is the one who killed him. 

You see the bench just up ahead, and she lets go of your arm to shuffle towards it, carefully brushing off the fallen petals and taking a seat. 

She smiles at you, pats the spot beside her. You gulp, take a seat.

“How have you been, my son?”

_On the run from everyone I once trusted, wrestling with the fact that my once dead brother is now alive, somehow he wants me to join his cause?_ you think. _I’m perfectly fine mother, thank you for asking._

“I… have been better.” you say. 

She simply hums, looking out over the still water. The silence chills you, but you suppress a shiver. You observe the water, warily, watchful, ready in case the guards outside decide to come in. Storm bow is just a quick snatch away. 

“I like your new look.” she says with a giggle.

You reach up immediately, fingers just brushing the shaved sides of your head. 

“Such a rebellious thing. I always thought Genji would do something like this. It’s refreshing to see it on you.”

At every mention of his name you almost jolt. You let another wave of guilt wash over. You killed him, you took his life with your own two hands and your blade and you tore your own brother apart. 

You remember, the memories dredge themselves back up, shredding your insides as they resurface, you remember. You remember the young sparrow screaming, shouting, writhing beneath you as you slashed, cut, speared your blade into him. 

You remember the red, red blood spilling forth, pooling beneath his body, soaking everything, tainting the ground, his clothes, your blade, your skin. You remember in your rage you kept going, even when his arm, reaching out to you went limp, even when he ceased to respond, ceased to scream, you slashed and cut. You remember clenching your teeth so hard your jaw hurt. You remember walking off, once the anger subsided, letting the guards dispose of the remains like some simple refuse.

You remember, although you don’t want to. 

She speaks, cutting through your memories. 

“I’m not angry at you. I’m not upset.” she says. It’s only now you hear how her speech is a little slow. 

You watch her thin hands curl in her lap. Not daring to face her directly.

“I know the elders made you do it. You thought it was the right thing to do. They even tried to convince me. ‘Your younger son is a disgrace’ they said. Terrible. My Genji is perfect just the way he is. And so are you.” she shakes her head. “My children grew into such fine men.” she continues with a smile.

“How could you say that?” you ask. 

“Because it’s true.”

“I- I killed him. Genji- I don’t deserve your kindness. I don’t deserve-”

“Forgiveness? Of course you do. The man who killed my son, isn’t the man you are now. You’ve changed. You’re sorry for what you’ve done.”

“You don't know that.”

She reaches up to pat you on the shoulder. 

“Hanzo.”

You glance at her.

“Your brother has forgiven you. Why aren’t you forgiving yourself?”

“He- How do you know that?”

“Genji came to me. He spoke to me a few weeks ago.”

“You know he’s alive?” you ask, bewildered.

“Yes.” she says, and she giggles “My baby boy is still so handsome, although no one can see his face now.”

_Your fault_. You gulp.

“You’ve seen what he’s become. He’s more machine than man.”

“So?”

“I did that to him. I- I _ruined_ him. How could he forgive me? How could you?”

She huffs. 

“Hanzo.” she says, a little stern. “What have you been doing these past few years?”

You don’t reply.

“Have you not been trying to atone for what you’ve done? Isn’t that why you left?”

You can’t reply. 

“He loves you, Hanzo. I love you. You deserve to be forgiven, you deserve to be happy.”

“No. I don’t.”

She stands, smoothing the front of her kimono, and she beckons for you to follow her. You walk around the pond, over a bridge and back to one of the buildings, you stop at the door. She turns to face you, hands clasped in front of her.

Behind you, cherry blossoms fall. 

“I love you, son. I love you so much. Genji does too. We don't want to see you hurting anymore. Genji has given you a chance to atone. And do right by him through your actions. It’s a chance he’s handing to you, you don’t even need to fight for it. He’s offering you a new life. A new start.” She says softly, her voice is as clear as you remember, but now it trips and falls into little cracks. A mark of age you suppose.

She smiles a little. “You deserve this, Hanzo. I mean it. You deserve to heal. If there’s ever a chance for you to be happy, you should take it. Don't stay trapped here forever, my son. Don’t be a prisoner anymore.”

“I am not a prisoner.”

“You are. You don't even realise it.”

“I. I just don’t know if I can truly do good. Genji should never have offered me this. I-” you shake your head. “How could you believe I deserve any of this? How could he just hand it to me?”

“Don’t be silly. He hasn’t handed you everything. He’s offered you a single chance. And it is yours to take. To _prove_ that you deserve everything.”

You don’t answer.

“He’s offered you a first step. I suggest you take it.”

She begins walking back into the house. But she stops at the doorway. 

“I really meant what I said. You do deserve forgiveness, and happiness, and peace. Genji has given you a single chance to attain that. If you truly want atonement, you’ll take it.”

She smiles at you, one last time.

“I love you, Hanzo. Come visit me again once you’ve mended what you’ve broken. The next time I see you, I want to see a different man. I want to see you healed.” she says, and she steps inside, and slides the door shut. 

You’re alone in the gardens. Standing under the sakura as the petals fall. The moon floats serenely in the sky as you turn and walk away. You scale the wall, perching above waiting for the patrolling guards to move off, sprinting across the street once they do. 

Sunrise finds you back on the hypertrain to Tokyo, the station attendants hastily waving you past the gantries, and you rushing to catch the train. They shouldn't question the lonely man with the guitar case. They didn’t. 

As you sit in the last row, admiring the view outside as the sun comes up over the hills, you replay the events of the previous night. 

_I want to see you healed._ you recall. 

_Healed_. She said. _Happy_. She requested. 

_Well_. You think, taking out your phone, tapping in the number you remember. (How could you forget, after reading that message over and over?) 

_I will try my best._

And you press call. 

“Greetings, Mr.Shimada.” says a feminine voice on the other end.

“Hello.” you say, you frown, “How did you know my name, this is a secure line-”

“We’ve been told to expect your call. My name is Athena, How may I help you?”

You gulp, your heart is pounding loud in your chest.

“May I speak to Genji?”

“Unfortunately, we cannot allow that, security protocol requires this call be-”

“Can I get a message to him at least?”

A few seconds of silence pass, you wonder if they hung up. Then the voice (Athena, you correct) replies again.

“I can pass along a message to him.”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, you grip the armrest tight. 

And you say, “Tell him that I’m coming.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this a long time ago, but never really got around to it. So here I go now.


End file.
